Return on Investment

by BlueRibbon118

Although the Lighthouse War is over, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise's problems are only just beginning. Together with her companions, she must forge a new path in a shattered Usea, gripped by strife and disorder. But they are not alone. Sensing opportunity, new powers have emerged from the shadows - each with their own plans for the ailing continent...

2. Initial Public Offering

Return on Investment

---

Chapter TWO - Initial Public Offering

"The best negotiating position is atop a big pile of guns."
— Belkan proverb

---

Tyler Island, Southwestern Usea
3 April 2020

The sky was tinged a sickly brown, wisping with particles of smoke and old ash like acrid, fetid snow. Grass and trees lay parched and limp. The sun stared blankly from high on, a pale halo emitting a cold, unwelcoming light.

The commandeered armored car, an INKAS Hudson still bearing the insignia - and scars - of its Erusean Army service, grunted and trotted its way along the dirt trail that led away from the shoreline.

'Why are we still here?' complained the man in the passenger seat, speaking in Belkan. He was breathing heavily. 'Just to suffer?'

'Patience, Georg.' replied Doctor Schroeder, speaking as he drove. 'All will become clear in due time.'

'Are we there yet?' asked Simon Orestes Cohen, a young bespectacled pupil of Schroeder's. He was strapped in at the back of the vehicle, nursing a tangled mess of tools, cables, and electronic equipment. 'I'm hungry. When do we get to eat?'

Ignoring him, Schroeder drove on. The trail quickly became engulfed by a sea of dilapidated trees, snaking up into the dead hills that defined the island's interior.

A left hairpin curve, riding a blind ledge atop a yawning ravine, came rushing up to meet them. On approach, Schroeder applied the brakes and shifted down into second gear. He tilted the wheel first to the right, then sharply to the left, sending the Hudson whirling into the turn - a classic Scandinavian flick - kicking up a small surf of dirt and loose debris that sprinkled over the cliff edge as it went. The armored car growled and grumbled as Schroeder's feathered the throttle and countersteered, a simultaneous co-ordinated action.

Smacked by lateral Gs, Georg clung on to the passenger handle for dear life and shut his eyes. He was trying desperately not to look down into the gaping ravine below. Behind him, Simon hurled and reflexively swallowed a gulp of caustic, bitter barf.

But there was no danger. It was over in a second. At the corner exit, Schroeder straightened out and throttled up again, a throaty growl from the engine retransmitting two hundred turbocharged horses to each of the Hudson's four wheels, taking it deeper into the forested depths of Tyler Island.

Tyler Island was a big maze, and the forest, dull and wilted, was no exception. Everything had fallen into dismal ruin - not even the birds were singing.

It was hard to believe, then, that the name 'Tyler Island' once recalled a sunny, idyllic spaceport where a thousand people lived and worked. During the war, the island had been contested between the armies of Osea and Erusea in what quickly became of the most horrific episodes of the Lighthouse War. And that was before the communications breakdown. Before the massacres. Before the Disorder.

Today, all the people that had ever set foot on this blighted island had been long killed on its bloody shores, or fled to parts unknown.

Now there was nobody.

Nobody, save for the unassuming trio that had quietly arrived earlier that morning from the Space Elevator, pursuing their own mysterious agenda...

'We shouldn't be here.' said Georg, frantically shifting his gaze this way and that like a nervous cat. 'This land... it reeks of smoke and death. I can still hear the screaming.'

His apprehension was not unfounded - it was here that he and many other Belkan nationals were hunted down for the simple crime of being Belkan, born and raised. He had watched as the Eruseans, once their guards and protectors, suddenly turned and butchered his people - not just the men, but the women and the children too.

Georg himself had only survived by virtue of running as fast as his legs could carry him... and having the sheer good fortune to stumble across a roving band of friendly Osean convicts.

Doctor Schroeder, however, was in no mood for his colleague's nerves.

'I have little interest in your sentimentality.' he said coldly. 'Stay true to your duty, and obey. Good soldiers follow orders.'

'Spoken like a true Nordbeulkschlander.' Georg said, bitterly. 'It was exactly that attitude that created this chaos to begin with.'

The pointed reference to Schroeder's North Belkan heritage generated a brief reaction from the former Gründer scientist. Calmly, he slowed down and pulled over into a small clearing off the side of the trail. The car lurched to a stop and Schroeder pulled up the handbrake, then lashed Georg with a hard stare.

'Were you so different?' Schroeder posed icily. 'It was your work here on this very island that led to the death of Vincent Harling, the great Osean peacemaker. The only thing that distinguished you and I was that your weak, South Belkan heart lost its conviction long before my own.'

Unfazed, Georg stood his ground. 'Yes, Doctor! I did lose my conviction!' he riposted sharply, his voice almost breaking. 'Because I had seen first hand the suffering that our work had wrought! I witnessed the consequences with my own eyes, even felt them on my own skin! And unlike so many others, I lived to speak of them! I chose to step back from the madness, just as I have chosen now to try and make things right!'

Georg's fists were balled. His eyes conveyed an anguished desperation, and he had worked himself up into a fighting mood to protect it.

Seeing this, Schroeder gave a resigned sigh - apparently deciding it was not profitable to argue with a man in this state.

'Hmph. Then it appears we both seek atonement for our past misdeeds.' he said, adopting a conciliatory tone. 'Neither of us would be here if that were not the case.'

The tension felt as though it had been cut with a knife. Slowly, gingerly, Georg settled down, looking away in mild embarrassment at almost having lost control of his feelings.

'... Agreed.' he said mutely.

No one else said a word. What more was there to say?

They drove on. The dirt trail soon joined a paved road, marred with cracks and the repulsive brown weeds that had sprouted from them. The dead forest had given way to a picturesque neighborhood of little red-roofed designer houses - quarters for the many Belkan civilians that worked on the island and their families.

It was these suburbs that had witnessed some of the bloodiest, most vicious fighting of the entire war. Even now, long after the last Erusean soldier had clambered atop a throne of skulls and claimed victory, the scars of battle still seemed fresh; the houses and boulevards lay derelict, smashed and burned from the fighting. Shattered glass and twisted plastic covered the ground. Skeletal bodies of all shapes and sizes littered the concourses like old weeds - some in uniform, others not, some not wearing anything at all.

Georg watched in macabre silence as these scenes passed him by. He swallowed. Six months had passed since he had last been here. In that time, so much had happened, so much had changed... Yet, the terrible events of those dark days still felt as fresh and vivid in his mind as though he had never left.

Signalling and turning right, Schroeder brought the Hudson into the assembly floor of an unassuming factory complex on the southern tip of the island, huddled among a dozen other structures that serviced the nearby airfield. Remarkably, apart from the ragged bullet holes and a messy crater left by the wreck of a downed MQ-99 UCAV, the factory had few visible damages - all of the heavy equipment was still there, hanging ominously like many swords of Damocles, slightly rusted from neglect and exposure to the humid, mineral-rich ocean air.

Even the control room, perched atop a perilous staircase barely wide enough for a person, looked intact. A couple days' renovation, and the factory would be as good as new.

'We're here.' Schroeder said, parking the car. 'Time to get to work. Simon, get up those stairs and access the control room. Georg and I will offload the equipment.'

'Right.' Simon replied, picking his way over to the Hudson's rear door. With visible effort, he picked up an iron crowbar on his way out. Then he jumped down onto the factory floor and began clambering up the narrow stairs to the control room as quickly as his thin, bony legs would allow.

Meanwhile, stepping out from the passenger side, Georg regarded his surroundings curiously.

'This... is a factory.' he remarked, looking around.

'Not just any factory.' Schroeder answered, walking up beside him. 'It's an Advanced Automated Aviation Plant.'

A look of confusion, then of horror, appeared in Georg's eyes.

'... Oh no. No!' he stammered, naked panic rising in his voice as the realization hit him; Schroeder had taken them to a wartime UAV factory - one of many hidden across the Usean continent, built during the war by enterprising Gründer engineers for a single purpose: to flood the skies with swarms of killer combat drones.

'You can't do this, Doctor! I won't do it! I won't restart this UAV factory - those drones are too dangerous!'

Schroeder raised an eyebrow. 'Drones? No. Even I would not make that mistake again.'

'Then what are we doing here?' Georg demanded, his expression swinging back to baffled confusion.

'I need you and Simon to help me restore this factory to working order. But it will not be to produce drones.'

'But if not drones, then what? What else could this automatic death factory possibly do for us?'

'There was more to my research at the EASA than mere drones.'

Georg crossed his arms, skeptical. 'Oh really? Enlighten me.'

'Gladly.' Schroeder said flatly. 'Simon's contributions in extracting Mihaly's flight data also yielded useful knowledge on neural networks and predictive simulations. Parallel to that, my work on the Z.O.E project pioneered new aviation technology and radical design principles. And as for you, Georg, your... record speaks for itself.'

'I suppose that's true...'

'My point is that we have all committed grave crimes in the recent past, and I will not excuse one iota of it. But, whatever may have happened before, it is time for us now to use our talents for good. To serve a greater and better cause. And that cause is to serve and protect our people - our new nation at the Space Elevator, with whom we share a bond as those who have lost their homelands. Today, they are threatened by the vile machinations of General Resource. But, at least between us, we have the means to protect them. And that is why we are here.'

Schroeder was speaking with real conviction, genuine feelings of atonement and attachment to the Space Elevator community evident in his voice. Georg should have been relieved... but somehow, there was something about his tone and the look in his eyes that he wasn't entirely comfortable with.

---

Meanwhile, Simon Orestes Cohen had finally topped the staircase. All that stood between him and the factory control room was a single locked door, and now he was trying to wrench it open with the crowbar.

He was panting. His bony arms were aching, and pungent sweat was beading on his brow. The crowbar was heavy, and the door was not going to come undone so easily. Simon was a mere research assistant with a lean, spidery physique, and he found his current task - after clearing a whole staircase, no less - a most arduous struggle.

But where he lacked in muscle, he liked to think he more than compensated with brain power. And the task of repeatedly levering at the crowbar had given him time to think.

And he was hearing the whole exchange between the two former Belkan operatives.

So... he reflected inwardly. This is one of the fabled UAV factories where the ADF-11 Raven units infused with old man Mihaly's flight and neurological data were supposed to be manufactured. How intriguing.

Though physically exhausted from physical labor, Simon found himself motivated to get into the control room by a sense of renewed vigor and opportunity.

Then there should be a copy of the Raven data somewhere in the factory archives, he mused. It would be an older version; a remote back up from before Doctor Schroeder's original data chip was destroyed... but it should still be enough to further my own research. And who knows? Perhaps one day I shall reconstruct it. Then I shall perfect it, and make it my very own artificial intelligence... And then maybe, just maybe... Yoko will notice me!

Sensing that he was on the cusp of realizing his fortune - and possibly even impressing the girl he liked - he grinned.

Only a little while longer...

---

'But to resort to such means...' Georg ventured. 'After all that has happened... I don't know if I have the stomach for this.'

'The dark side of Belkan science is a pathway to many abilities, some consider to be unnatural.' Schroeder said with a completely straight face. 'But with General Resource on the move, we must be prepared to combat them with whatever weapons we can gather about ourselves. Only by embracing the radical and the unorthodox can we hope to turn the tide, and thereby protect those precious to us.'

'Those precious to us...' Georg reflected, considering Schroeder's words and their framing. 'To protect, and not destroy...'

'That is why I need you and Simon to remain here.' Schroeder continued. 'The two of you can help restore this factory, while I shall supply the new aircraft designs - they will, of course, be manned. We will repay the kindness of the Princess and the Space Elevator community in the only way that we Belkans know how; by gifting them with new, superior technology and equipping them with a new, superior air force.'

'A new air force...'

'In time, I intend to reactivate the other automated factories as well. For now, however, this island's proximity to the Space Elevator will make it a suitable location for us to start building up our strength.'

Georg nodded slowly, still uncertain about Doctor Schroeder's apparent master plan.

Or, for that matter, his logic.

'But Doctor, if we are building a new fleet of manned aircraft to fight General Resource on equal terms... who will fly these new planes?' he asked, reasonably. 'I am something of a pilot myself, but I am only one man. Others will be needed. But who?'

Schroeder gazed up thoughtfully for a moment, before replying simply,

'... Leave that with me.'

---

The Keep, Western Usea
4 April 2020

«Sol Squadron, defend Shilage! We must not let it fall to foreign invaders again!»

«Heads up, Roald, you've got one on your tail! Break, break!»

«If only King was here, we would've crushed these mercenary dogs long ago! Damn it!»

The dawn was alight with rippling fireballs and tracer fire. Roaring jets and missile contrails criss-crossed in dizzying patterns against a backdrop of fading stars. Once again, as so often, the early morning calm had been swept away by the tides of war.

The chaotic aftermath of the Lighthouse War had plunged all of Usea into a bloody crucible. Even after the Eruseans and the Oseans signed a peace treaty, the strife and disorder that so gripped the continent did not simply fade away with the stroke of a pen. With only patchwork repairs to communications, warlords and mercenary scum were now grappling over dwindling territory and resources. The strong prospered, the weak were devoured. In the grim darkness of the 21st century, there was only war.

For many places, it seemed as though the war never ended. The Independent State of Shilage, six months into its rebirth as a free nation, was one such place.

«Pick off the weak ones first.»

The only rule of engagement was... to survive.

Four Su-30M2 Flanker-F2s, bearing the scowling sun emblem of the Sol Squadron and the sword-clutching swallow roundels of the reborn Voslagian Air Force, were locked in a vicious aerial battle against buzzing swarms of vicious marauders.

'Sol Two, Fox Two.'

The hostile AJS-37 Viggen blew out like a flower, its rusted, bleached bone airframe peeling away and showering the lush fields of Shilage with burning fragments.

The marauders had come from the north - just as the Eruseans had, a long time ago. And just like that time, the first place they met resistance was the ancient castle known as The Keep.

The Keep was a massive structure, larger even than Shilage Castle, built into the foundations of a hill overlooking the Zala River - the cradle and spine of both Shilage and Voslage. There were several layers of armored casemates and blockhouses, bastions and blocky towers, all rooted firmly into the fertile ground, standing defiant against all comers. There were even a handful of satellite castles in the surrounding area.

The history of The Keep was one marked by war, and that trend was going to continue.

Wit, former EASA test pilot and de facto chief of the restored Voslagian Air Force, glanced down at his instrument panel. Fuel state was good, but he had just expended his last missile. Only guns were left now - a dangerous prospect in a modern furball. He had gone up with twelve missiles, all of which had now been fired; four had been killing shots, one probable kill, two hits in non-critical areas, and the remaining five had either missed their targets or failed to detonate.

The people of Voslage had been renowned for producing first-rate aviators, even after they had been dragged kicking and screaming into union with Erusea - a tradition that the current generation had very much continued.

Wit himself was among their best. Years ago, he had been one of exactly four pilots hand-picked to fly at the side of King himself, a distinction that elevated him far and above the common Erusean rabble. During the Lighthouse War, he had flown all over Usea. He had fought with - and later alongside - the great Three Strikes, and had even lived to tell the tale of their final battle against the Ravens.

It was during that last battle that he had been shot down and wounded. Still, his injuries were sustained in non-critical areas, and it wasn't long before he was back in the air and once again fighting for his country.

But, despite this illustrious record, it was not going to be enough. Today, the fighting pilots of Voslage were outnumbered. Just like the last time, when the Eruseans had come...

No. Brotherly Shilage would not fall again. The people of Voslage would not allow that, as they had shamefully done so once before. They would not repeat the mistakes of their past.

'Sol Two, Winchester. Still engaged.'

Twisting the flight stick, Wit swung his boltgun metal-colored Su-30M2 around in a wide dive and dumped flares. Tracer fire and a hostile missile fluttered past the canopy. He saw Hermann's Su-30 below and to his left, twisting and turning, tailed by a pair of marauding JF-17s.

'Sol Four.' he radioed. 'Bandit at six o'clock. Shake him off.'

«Bandit's right on me!» came Hermann's response.

Meanwhile, the JF-17s were closing in.

«Run while you still can!»

«I'm about to rip him a new one!»

One of them belched a volley of 23mm cannon fire from its twin-linked GSh-23-2. Hermann's plane broke hard, narrowly escaping the barrage with only a perforated wing. It bobbed and teetered in the air for a moment as the onboard flight computers quickly adjusted for the sudden change in aerodynamics.

«Someone help me!»

Hermann's in trouble, but I'm out of missiles... Wit observed. What would Mihaly do?

The answer to that, of course, was easy.

'Pursuing bandit!' Wit said. 'This is Sol Two. Someone cover me.'

«Copy that, Wit.» radioed Seymour, Wit's wingman and most trusted companion. «I'm out of ammo, but I'll watch your tail. We'll split them up.»

'Understood.'

Wit powered in with Seymour in tow, latching behind one of the marauders.

«He's right behind me!»

«I'll shake him.»

The first marauder swung hard left, while its companion broke away in the opposite direction - creating just enough of an opening for Sol Four to slip away to safety.

«Wit... Thank you.»

'No sweat.'

Wit had his target. The marauder jinked and pulled back and forth, before coming down in an inverted dive, finishing with a split-S. The JF-17 was an agile bird, lightweight and fiendishly maneuverable. The pilot was a skilled one too, but no match for Wit's caliber in man or machine. The former EASA test pilot kept the bandit in his sights, leading it with the computerized gunsight. He copied its nimble, darting motions through harsh moves that took him to the brink of tunnel vision.

'I got you.' Wit growled, powering through the centripetal force of an Immelmann turn. 'You ain't getting away.'

The JF-17 rolled back and over, plunging into a downward spiral. The marauder ground his crooked teeth and fought off the creeping vertigo. Lush, verdant farmland came rushing up to meet him. At the very last moment, he pulled back hard on the stick, pivoting up with mere feet to spare, and soared back into the sky at full throttle.

The marauder headchecked. Wit's Su-30 had been with him every step of the way.

«Impressive moves!»

The marauder had spoken truer than he knew, of course. The more powerful Su-30 was better in a climb, and his JF-17 had bled too much speed with his reckless aerobatics. He had hoped to lose his Voslagian opponent in a turning battle or, failing that, force him to crash. He had gambled on both counts - and lost twice.

Wit squeezed the trigger. The Su-30's GSh-30-1 thumped out a stream of gunfire, tracers burning incandescent in the low dawn light.

The heavy 30mm rounds punched in, shearing off the marauder's starboard wing.

«I can't take any more!»

Trailing smoke and debris, the hostile JF-17 flamed out and spiralled towards the ground for the last time.

'Got him. On my nose!' Wit reported.

«Good shooting!» Seymour said.

A sudden burst of hostile tracers whipped past the canopy. One of them stung him on the fuselage, jolting the airframe. Reacting at once, Wit pulled hard right and headchecked; the second JF-17 was now hot on his tail, taking advantage of the distraction provided by its erstwhile companion.

«I've got his six!»

Wit glanced at his ammo counter. Only a handful of rounds left - one more burst, and he would be completely unarmed.

Time to make this count.

He slunk away, circling lazily around in a deep, open turn at a moderate speed.

The hungry bandit took the bait, spraying 23mm rounds as he charged in.

«Down you go!»

Ignoring the taunt, Wit suppressed the aircraft's automatic G-limiter. Then he pulled back hard on the flight stick, bracing himself as the Su-30M2 swung straight up into the vertical position; Pugachev's Cobra, one of the first of many aerial manoeuvres he had learned from Mihaly.

Dark blue. In that moment, that was all he saw. The very heavens themselves seemed to be calling to him - that was, of course, why he had become a pilot in the first place. The sky had been there long before his time, and would continue to be there long after he had gone. Were he not at war, Wit might well have been able to stare up at this mysterious, beckoning beauty and become lost in it forever.

The tranquil calm was broken when the pencil-shaped silhouette of a JF-17 swept past.

In that precise, fleeting instant, Wit squeezed the trigger. The Su-30 - still mid-Cobra - sent up a geyser of 30mm gunfire. The heavy rounds raked the passing JF-17 from nose to tail, easily chewing through its small, lightweight fuselage.

«Damage critical!»

It was over in a second. The hostile broke apart down its centerline, peeling away into burning shreds as its fuel stores were ruptured and ammunition cooked off.

Breaking the maneuver, Wit throttled up and banked right...

... only to be faced with a fresh wave of enemy reinforcements. The whole world's air forces seemed to be arrayed against him, as numerous as the stars themselves, as if to deny his country and his people. At least an entire squadron's worth, bearing down on him like the legions of hell.

Wit cursed inwardly. The Voslagian Air Force had held the line, grimly, for nearly half a year, without help, breaks, or holidays. That was half a year of shielding their brother peoples from the predations of Usean warlords, who were themselves equal parts desperate and deranged to secure their own places in this scared new world.

The defenders had fought ferociously. However, the sheer attrition of fighting back wave after wave of hungry marauders had ground their numbers down to a mere handful - all so that they might but just a little bit more time for their country's restoration to continue.

Now, it seemed they had all reached the end of the line. Without Mihaly, Wit held the dubious honor of being the senior pilot of the Sol Squadron, and thus of the whole Voslagian Air Force. He had given an outstanding account of himself. But now here he was at last. This was inevitable. Completely outnumbered and out of ammunition, he now faced certain death.

'Sol Two... I'm out of ammo.'

«Sol Five, ditto.» reported Roald. «All ordnance expended.»

«Sol Four. Winchester. I think this is it...»

The radar-warning receiver was already ringing in his ears. The end was upon them all, and their restoration was doomed. It wouldn't be long now.

But what an end! For Wit, the thought of death no longer terrified him. He had done all he could. He was prepared to sell his life dear to give even an extra second for his reborn country. When the time for battle had come, his people had not been found wanting. They had risen to the occasion and viciously defended their newfound life and liberty against all comers. What more could be asked of them?

Yes, they would all certainly die today - but in battle!

'You shall not pass!'

«That will not be necessary.» said a new voice.

Wit had just enough time to wonder who had spoken, before the sky lit up.

The incoming marauders had been struck, all at once, by a volley of missiles that had seemingly appeared from beyond the clouds. They broke apart in sudden, violent detonations, as if swatted from the sky by some invisible hand.

A lone F/A-32A Erne had entered the airspace, suddenly appearing as a faint blip on Wit's radar screen. Checking its affiliation, however, was a trickier matter.

'Identify yourself.' he challenged.

«This is Abyssal Dision of the General Resource Defense Force.» the newcomer radioed back. «Voslagian Air Force, hold fast. We are moving to assist.»

'General Resource...' Wit enunciated, as if tasting the words. 'I've heard that name before.'

Indeed, Doctor Schroeder had spoken of them during their halcyon days with the EASA. Apparently, they were a huge, supranational corporation that started as a Usean shipping company, but had quickly expanded their operations to places all over the world in almost every industry imaginable, but that was where Wit's knowledge of them ended.

Evidently, their organization had also been resilient enough to stay together even with the world order collapsing around their ears. Now they were fielding their own military forces - a prospect that, for a corporation, Wit found highly unusual.

«It seems our reputation precedes us.» Dision said wryly. «But you may rest assured. We're here as friends.»

'We...?'

A handful of enemy marauders had survived the initial barrage. Shattered and confused, they were all caught out when Dision's F/A-32 plunged into them like a flaming dagger. The blue-tinged aircraft whirled and scythed through the air. One by one, the marauders fell before the lone pilot's onslaught, with a speed and ruthless efficiency that Wit had not seen since...

It was over in less than a minute. The picture was clear. The one called Dision had just saved them all. As a final flourish, he weaved and danced a trail in the air, banking slightly to the side - the stylized 'G' emblem of the GRDF clearly visible for all, glimmering brightly as it reflected the morning sunlight.

Wit, however, was rather less enthusiastic. Seymour, Roald, and Hermann too were similarly silent, and it was not hard to see why.

Certainly, they were all very thankful to have been given the chance to fight another day. They had only embraced the prospect of death because it really had seemed that there had been no alternative, at least until Dision had appeared.

His timing, however, struck the Sol Squadron pilots - naturally suspicious and distrusting - as very convenient indeed.

Too convenient.

«You're welcome.» Dision said.

And just like that, the battle was over.

---

Shilage Castle, Western Usea
7 April 2020

Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise stepped off the V-280 tiltrotor and onto the pavement, slipping on a pair of shades that muted the glare of the afternoon sun.

The Valor had dropped her off at the mouth of a highway tunnel. A delegation from the new Shilagian government had been waiting to receive her and, after a brief exchange of awkward handshakes and passive-aggressive pleasantries, she was duly ushered towards a car that would take them up to the majestic frontage of Shilage Castle.

Rosa had been here twice before; first as a young commoner, and next as a Princess on tour. And yet, even on this third occasion as provisional leader of the Space Elevator community, she still found herself wonderstruck at the sights and sounds that greeted her.

'Peace...'

Around her lay the pastoral scenes of the Shilagian heartland, almost a window into simpler times long past; sunlight glimmered from stone roofs and cobbled roads, built upon the banks of the great Zala River that coursed through the land like a ribbon of sparkling crystals. Little sailboats bobbed and drifted in a cool, westerly breeze. Knots of children played at the water's edge, while horse-drawn carts clattered past a row of small market stalls set up under the first leaves of spring and little pink flowers. Somewhere from the town, a bell was chiming.

To Rosa's other side rose the ancient hill of Shilage Castle; a hardened, tiered fortress built centuries ago from basalt and limestone. Seeing it up close, it was easy to see how this ancient structure had been regarded as the cultural, political, and administrative heart of the Shilagian nation throughout its long and storied history.

Indeed, faced with such majesty, Rosa found it hard to believe that this idyllic land could ever be perennially locked in a constant struggle for its own survival.

On closer inspection, however, the signs were evident.

The first giveaway was that the highway she had landed on had been converted into a military air base. And atop the walls of Shilage Castle, NASAMS launchers and portable radar units had been installed, pointing skyward like speartips. The castle itself still bore the ugly scars from Osean bombing during the war. Meanwhile, around the town, groups of little old men were anxiously watching the skies like prairie dogs from atop rooftops and bell towers. The undercurrent of fear and tension was palpable, belying the thin veneer of peace.

There was hope, however. Days before, General Resource had swept to their rescue at The Keep, driving away the marauders and mercenary scum at the very moment that local resistance had been broken. Now, they were providing much-needed assistance to the war-weary peoples of Shilage. Even from here, Rosa could see GR employees handing out relief supplies and care packages from GR-marked trucks. Out on the waters of the Zala, a massive GR-flagged bulk carrier was drifting downriver, carrying vital Shilagian grain exports to the wider world.

Most significant of all, a large communications tower was being erected on the hills on the opposite side of the river, just beyond the edge of town. Apparently, it was a relay node into General Resource's land-based communications network - which had survived the global satellite catastrophe relatively unscathed.

General Resource also had a presence in the highway air base itself. The local air cadre - flying battle-scarred Gripen Es and crusty F-16Cs - had found themselves welcomely supplanted by factory-fresh F-16XLs and F-15S/MTDs, all bearing the markings of the General Resource Defense Force.

Far above them all, high in the sky, a solitary F/A-32A Erne was circling around on a combat air patrol. Its roaring wash had scattered a nearby flock of migratory cranes. On its tailplane was painted a strange emblem; a serpent biting its own tail - an Ouroboros.

'Magnificent, aren't they?'

'Yes...' Rosa breathed.

She had not come alone. At her side was Gilbert Park, a delegate of the General Group's board of directors, vested with considerable authority and discretion on their behalf. Also present was Doctor Schroeder, the former Gründer researcher and self-appointed advisor to Rosa's administration at the Space Elevator.

Together, the group made for an odd combination.

Rosa's wardrobe had come prepared this time. She had arrived in her signature white dress, embroidered blazer, and polished high-heels. Her hair had been trimmed and properly styled, and various cosmetics had been applied to accentuate her clean, polished features. Her soft, aristocratic skin exuded a floral scent of the finest perfume. This was the Princess that had taken a whole nation to war, leading to the ruin of millions...

Rosa swallowed. Since the harrowing events of the Lighthouse War, she had allowed herself to believe that she had become a wiser person than the idealistic stooge that had fallen so easily for the lies of militaristic tyrants.

But now... was she about to do it all again?

The answer to that question lay with Gilbert Park. He was still wearing that ash-grey military tunic of his, probably the same one in which he had turned up at their first meeting at the Space Elevator that set this whole visit in motion. His eyes were completely obscured by a pair of reflective shades, leaving only his lips to clue his inner thoughts and character. He was smiling, but that didn't say much. People smiled for all sorts of reasons. What was Gilbert Park smiling for? Rosa couldn't be sure.

Doctor Schroeder, on the other hand, was not smiling. He was quite a different animal altogether; where Gilbert Park was buoyant and assertive, Schroeder was reserved and calculating. He was still wearing his trademark labcoat - and his typical, unflinching expression. On the surface, Rosa found him even harder to read than Park, who was at least capable of expressing more than two emotions. Yet, Rosa also knew that the war had left its mark on him. And like Rosa, he at least seemed determined that its mistakes should not be repeated.

However, Schroeder was also immediately hostile to Park's lofty corporate promises. To say that the two men did not get along would be a gross understatement - even if he had pledged to support Rosa's decision-making on the matter, regardless of which way she swayed.

The appearances of this unlikely trio were as inconsistent and contradictory as it was possible to be. What sort of impression were they giving the people of Shilage, whose recent history had given them very good reason to be distrustful of outsiders?

A travelling circus, Rosa thought, faintly flushing with embarrassment.

Rosa's worries didn't end there. The historic actions of Erusea and Belka - represented by proxy in Rosa and Schroeder - probably had not filled the Shilagian people with confidence. Against this, however, their timely rescue by General Resource - personified by Gilbert Park - had apparently made up for this difference. The fact they were not shot down during their landing approach seemed to confirm this.

That also served the purpose of today's business visit. General Resource had performed a tremendous service to Shilage, and their leaders were undoubtedly waiting with bated trepidation to see what such a huge and powerful corporation might demand from their little green country in return.

It seemed to Rosa that she was simply being strung along for the ride. Just like before. A pretty-faced cover for someone else's agenda. A pawn on a giant, Usea-shaped chessboard. Yes, Rosa had been here before...

Still... Doctor Schroeder had been right. What was done, was done. She could only move forwards. Whatever might have happened in the past, she still had a duty to give the future her best for the sake of the people she cared about. She would prove to everyone - not just to the Shilagians, but also to all of her new companions at the Space Elevator - that she could still do good for the world.

For better or worse, this was her drive in life now.

---

The Upper Conference Chamber
Shilage Castle, Western Usea
7 April 2020

The conference room had a single arch-framed window that offered a commanding view over the whole town and the rolling hills beyond. Sunlight filtered in through silken curtains, casting patterns on a carpet of thick velvet that muffled the sounds of footsteps. An Estovakian-style chandelier hung from below a mosaic, frescoed ceiling that depicted two horses; one at night, one at day.

Stern-faced portraits glowered back from the walls - members of the ancient House Shilage, stretching back into the mists of time. Rosa recognized some of them from her high school history classes, like the peacemaker Zoltan and wise Katerina. And there were others she did not recognize; Natalja, Laszlo, and...

The last portrait in the sequence had been scratched out and messily removed, vandalized beyond recognition as if disowned by the family. However, there was another beside it that depicted a handsome young prince in full Shilagian military dress.

His name was 'Mihaly'.

Rosa cocked her head as she regarded the painting, sensing something oddly familiar about this 'Mihaly'. His portrait depicted a man with tall and chiselled features, with a leonine build and a mane of rich, dark brown hair. His steely-blue eyes were focused and penetrating, like those of a hawk. A real winner!

I wonder if Io and Alma know him...? she wondered. Have I seen him somewhere before? No, that's impossible...

The Princess sighed wistfully. The portrait was dated to the summer of 1969. That meant, whatever became of this 'Mihaly', he likely never got to sit on his family's gilded throne. Her country - the old Kingdom of Erusea - had seen to that.

I wonder where this 'Mihaly' is now...?

'Please be seated, everyone.' said an attendant, gliding around the room with a tray of sparkling refreshments. 'We have much to discuss.'

Within the conference room, everyone had gathered around a long table of finely-scented oak, layered with a white sheet, decorative flowers, and name labels for each delegate.

Today's guest list contained only five people of consequence, of which three were Rosa's trio, sitting on one side of the table. On the other side sat the two representatives from their hosts.

There was Colonel Wit, the young acting commander of the reformed Voslagian Air Force. Like most Voslagians, he had a wide, peasant-like face, with a cut of neatly-trimmed blonde hair. His eyes were hard and focused. He wore a sky-blue flying officer's tunic and a simple peaked cap, looking awkward and out of place, like a pro wrestler in evening dress. For some reason, Rosa had the odd feeling that she'd seen him somewhere before too, but couldn't quite put her finger on it.

The final guest, and perhaps most important of them all, was Prince Laszlo Marneus Augustus Calgar Nikola Leonardo Tamas Ferenc Loken de la Ponte Puissances of Shilage - the current leader of the restored Independent State of Shilage.

Laszlo also had a portrait on the wall, similarly dated to the one called 'Mihaly'. The resemblance was such that the two were almost certainly brothers. The passage of time had slackened his features and whitened his hair, but he still managed to carry himself with a firm, dignified air. His eyes were still sharp, and between his composed demeanor and masterfully-tailored uniform, Rosa could imagine no finer champion to lead the Shilagian nation in these turbulent times.

'Let us begin.' Laszlo said, projecting his gravelly voice loud and clear.

Introductions were made, and another round of light refreshments served. Rosa was no stranger to such ceremony, and she slipped into the role as easily as she would into a pair of comfortable heels. In many ways, she and Laszlo were two of the same breed. Gilbert Park's style was more candid and salesman-like, but still drew from many of the same fundamental principles of diplomacy.

Meanwhile, Colonel Wit was fixing Doctor Schroeder with a hard stare. Perhaps they knew each other? Rosa couldn't be sure...

'Now to business.' said Gilbert Park, ever the pragmatist.

'Quite so.' Laszlo nodded, keeping his voice level. 'Your organization has done our nation a tremendous service. What are your terms for compensation?'

'There was no trouble at all, Your Highness.' Park said. 'We were simply acting on behalf of Her Royal Highness, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise, who in turn represents the collective will of the growing refugee community at the Space Elevator.'

Prince Laszlo regarded Rosa with a curious look. 'Really?'

The Erusean Princess only blushed, tensing up in her seat. She knew she had to say something deep and meaningful but, when suddenly put on the spot in that one critical moment, words failed her.

Park drew back Laszlo's attention with a respectful nod, saving Rosa's dignity in the process. 'Really really. She and I have reached a mutual understanding, of pledging to work towards returning peace to a shattered Usea.'

'I don't believe you.' Wit interjected with a scowl.

'I agree, talk is cheap.' replied Park. He gestured towards the window, towards the town that was steadily filling with GR workers and monetary capital. 'Perhaps our actions shall speak for us.'

'You may take our lives,' the Voslagian pilot growled. 'But you'll never take our freedom!'

'No, it's not like that!' Rosa blurted out, raising her hands in feeble objection. Speaking for the first time in the discussion, she really could have picked a better moment - but at least she had found the courage to speak. 'That's not what we meant-'

'Isn't it?!'

Prince Laszlo cut them all off. 'What I am sure the good Captain means,' he interjected. 'is that, although we are most appreciative of your services rendered, the fact remains that there exists a considerable body of opinion among our people that sees many disadvantages at being in the debt of a foreign kingdom.'

He put particular emphasis on those last two words, raking Rosa with a glare of his own as he did so.

'Especially when such a debt comes uninvited.' Laszlo continued. 'It is our desire that we remain in control of our own affairs. This is non-negotiable. Our people will not accept being reduced to subject status again, not when we are already fighting so bitterly to keep our recently-restored freedoms.'

Park nodded judiciously. 'Be assured, Your Highness, we want nothing of the sort. We have much higher plans than petty conquest.'

'Get on with-' Wit started.

'Please tell us more.' Laszlo finished.

'Usea is a broken land, Your Highness.' Park said. 'Always has been. Usean history is not one of peace and unity, but of strife and division. A sad tale of failed empires and bloody rebellion, all fighting over breadcrumbs. So long as there is never enough to go around - whether it is resources, territory, or even markets - the need to build armies and use those armies will always exist. People don't trust each other, and they suffer for it. Human nature guarantees this.'

'I assume you are going to reach a point of some kind?' Wit pressed.

Park grinned. 'The only way to break this vicious cycle is to bring in an external benefactor. Someone who can protect everyone from each other. Someone who can provide a bottomless supply of investment capital and materiel resources, from connections made all over the world, so that no one will ever feel the need to go to war again. Someone who will succeed where others like Osea have failed. Someone like... General Resource.'

Rosa swallowed, once again assailed by that sinking feeling that she was in way over her head. Wit twitched his brow, while Doctor Schroeder simply sighed.

Prince Laszlo, meanwhile, kept his composure. It almost seemed that nothing could faze a man of his age and experience.

'Go on.' he said expectantly.

'Here are the salient points of our proposal to you,' Park said. 'First, the General Group is prepared to invest 5.7 trillion MRP into Shilagian reconstruction and infrastructure projects.'

This generated a fleeting reaction from Prince Laszlo, before he quickly recomposed himself. Wit only responded with a deathly silence, but Rosa could sense immediate scepticism in his eyes. She couldn't blame him. When Park had run her through the figures earlier on, she too had found his lofty promises to be more than a little ambitious.

'Five point seven...?' Laszlo ventured.

'Trillion MRP.' Park said, confirming the sum was not a typo by some lazy author.

He allowed himself a wiry smile before continuing.

'As well,' he said. 'We will also offer your government preferential access to our full range of product services - including GR Trading, GR Bank, GR Legal, Data Swallow, and GR Defense Force - formerly known as GRGM. This means, among other things, that you will be able to buy or sell any product via General Resource's global network at a discounted rate. We will also protect you from all external military threats on land, air, and cyber spaces, whether by state or non-state actors.'

Prince Laszlo stroked his beard, like a king regarding the treasures laid out before him. 'These are quite the offers you are making.' he said cautiously. 'But what is it that you require of us, specifically?'

'All we ask in return,' Park replied, pausing for effect. 'Is that you agree to take in two thousand the refugees currently residing at the International Space Elevator in Selatapura. GR will assume responsibility for all questions of supply, utilities, and infrastructure - at no monetary expense to yourselves.'

And there it was.

Laszlo nodded sagely, turning up his mouth as if in deep thought. The question was indeed a difficult one. To admit such a number of refugees into the country required trust and consent, and there was no guarantee that the naturally distrusting and suspicious peoples of Shilage would ever agree to provide either. And even putting aside the question of sovereignty, there were doubts as to whether little Shilage was capable of sustaining more refugees than it already was.

Rosa understood the dilemma. Years ago, in the aftermath of Ulysses, Erusea was among the worst affected by the impacts. The Goldberg Crater marked the tombstone of the Irsali River - once the spine of Erusea's commercial wealth, now little more than a barren wasteland. In Farbanti, that beating heart of the Erusean nation, the Ryker fragment had turned half the city into Atlantis. On that fateful day, everything that had constituted Erusean power and stability had been annihilated in the blink of an eye.

Almost overnight, the country had fallen into complete chaos. But Erusea's problems did not end there. The rest of Usea too had been affected, and the ensuing refugee crisis had flooded Erusea with numbers far greater than what the Erusean people could manage, who themselves were already struggling just to keep their heads above the water.

With the benefit of hindsight, the seizure of power by the fascist military junta was inevitable. Rosa herself had been born right in the middle of it. As for what happened next...

'You make a strong case, Mister Park.' Laszlo said, breaking the tension. 'However, you must understand that this is not a decision we can make lightly. I must consult with my government and my people on the various aspects of this arrangement, including the matter of the refugees.'

'Of course.' Park said, reasonably. 'We shall not force you to accept more refugees than you can handle, nor compel you to make a rash decision. We understand that these are matters you must consider with due care.'

Rosa allowed herself a faintly-relieved smile. Perhaps things were looking up after all...

'However.' Park added. Rosa's heart sank in renewed trepidation. 'As a gesture of co-operation, may we at least conclude today's meeting with a handshake pledge to agree to the spirit of the deal in principle? We are committed to helping the refugees through peaceful development, and we feel that it would set a positive tone for our next round of discussions.'

Laszlo stared at him. An awkward silence followed, awkward enough for Rosa to fear that Park's little gaffe had derailed the entire discussion.

Then, to her great surprise, Laszlo smiled - the first time he had done so in the whole meeting.

'We would be grateful.'

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosa noticed Wit turn to stare at Laszlo with an alarmed expression, before discipline reasserted itself.

'Excellent.' Park said warmly. He rose to his feet and extended his hand. The eldermost prince of Shilage regarded it curiously for a moment, before standing up to receive it in turn. 'Your Highness, it has been a wonderful pleasure meeting you. We appreciate your hospitality, as well as the valuable time and consideration that you have given us today.'

'The pleasure is all mine, Mister Park.' Laszlo said with practiced grace. 'My government shall await correspondence from your representatives to begin the talks in earnest.'

'We will be in touch.' Park assured, smiling. 'Let this be the beginning of a new chapter in Shilagian history, one that future generations can look upon with pride.'

This ended the discussion.

Diplomatic convention saw a further round of closing pleasantries and refreshments, allowing each delegate to digest the results and mingle a little bit. Rosa tried to strike up a conversation with Prince Laszlo, and was met with a less-than-friendly cold shoulder.

Wit was even less inclined to talk, falling back on the gruff officer's routine of "soldier first, politician second" when pressed. Rosa sensed that he was not completely comfortable with the direction the talks were taking, and had quiets doubts about Prince Laszlo's judgement - quiet, at least, for now.

Doctor Schroeder, meanwhile, had left early. Rosa couldn't say she was surprised. Like most Belkans, the man had little interest in publicity, preferring instead to work quietly from behind the scenes - although Rosa knew now that he could give quite a talk when he needed to. That said, he hadn't said a single word during the entire discussion. Odds were, he had only attended to assess the talks with his own eyes.

That, and to keep an eye on Gilbert Park. No doubt about it.

More inconsequential words were exchanged. Park, ever the salesman, closed off with a volley of business cards and the usual platitudes of working towards peace and prosperity.

Then, after all had been said and done, everyone filed out of the room and went their separate ways.

---

The Salty Sailor
Shilage Castle Town, Western Usea
7 April 2020

The tavern had no signage to indicate its name, but the locals referred to it as the Salty Sailor. Apparently, the sign had been stolen by fleeing royals during the last revolution, whisked away along with various other artifacts from around the town.

Carrying a small duffel bag containing a change of clothes and her personal effects, Rosa pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside the place of her assigned accommodation. At once, her senses were smacked by a pleasant aroma of burning candle wax and fragrant plum brandy.

Despite the grim times - or perhaps because of them - the tavern was full of life. It was crowded and full of people, men and women in their working day clothes, busily drinking and yelling themselves hoarse. Nicely-rounded waitresses in colorful dirndls were bustling around. The sounds of clanging mugs and hearty cheers. The occasional vomit. In the corner, a wizened old man with a herringbone cap and leather shorts was sitting on a chair, playing a wonderfully nostalgic tune on a little wooden fiddle. He was tapping his feet to make a percussive beat in podorhythmie fashion.

It seemed no one was paying any attention to the sudden spectacle of a princess - an Erusean princess, no less - visiting their fine establishment. After all, it was strange enough that Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise had been assigned an unassuming tavern on the far side of town as her accommodation on an official visit. Or perhaps, given how poorly most Shilagians viewed Erusean royalty, it was not strange at all...

Rosa looked around for a moment before lazily ambling up the staircase to the lodgings on the upper floor. The innkeeper stopped her halfway up the stairs, and helpfully slipped a pair of keys into her soft, weary hands. Then he whispered a room number that Rosa only barely registered, along with a curt platitude for her to enjoy her stay.

Rosa's assigned room was small and spare, with a low, sloped ceiling and a shutter window that wouldn't close properly. There was a bed, a small table with a candle lamp, and a large bucket placed invitingly in the corner.

Dropping her duffel bag, Rosa made straight for the bed. She dived straight onto it. She rolled all over it with her dirty clothes, over the crisp white sheets of the bed that the innkeeper had just had made. Thankfully, at least, she had not stood at any urinals recently.

She calmed down, but it did little to ease her troubled mind. She even began to feel a little bit light-headed as she took stock of the day's events;

A basic principle of any negotiation was to not reveal your hand until the last possible moment. After all, for a travelling salesman to convince others of his value, he need not show all his treasures - one rock 'n' roll record belonging to the late Alvin H. Davenport, that Osean war hero, would be quite enough.

Well, Gilbert Park had shown quite a lot in his opening offer: a straight-up 5.7 trillion MRP bribe. That was a sum larger than the economies of several small countries. And Park had blithely tossed it out as a starting point for the negotiations.

In exchange, all he had asked the Shilagians was to take in a portion of the refugees at the Space Elevator.

Park really had dangled a very large carrot, one that would solve all of Shilage's economic, infrastructure, and security problems all at once. But there was a stick too - the GRDF's presence was a decidedly unsubtle reminder that the same power that had saved Shilage could very easily be turned against it if a reason could be found.

In other words, so far, Gilbert Park had been a man of his word.

But for how much longer? Rosa caught herself wondering.

No matter how she thought about it, it really was difficult to imagine anyone, even a huge and powerful company like General Resource, simply putting up that much money just to fulfill a promise.

They wouldn't even make a profit, certainly not from a small country like Shilage. In fact, the rate of return would almost certainly be in the negatives.

Unless... unless it was not money they were after, but something else entirely. But if that was the case... then what? What return on investment could possibly justify such an enormous principal?

Rosa shook it off. After all, she rationalized, the negotiations were only just beginning. Any final deal would be the result of intense back-and-forth discussion, and agreed to only with the mutual consent of both parties.

Yes, that must have been it. Today's exchange had simply been to "set the tone" for future talks, as Park had so helpfully put it, to get the ball rolling.

At least now, this way, things were moving forward.

For better or worse...

...

... Somehow, she still wasn't convinced.

---

The West Armory
Shilage Castle, Western Usea
7 April 2020

'I do not trust these General Resource people.' said Hermann, squatting in the corner as he lit a carefully-rolled cigar of the finest Aurelian tobacco. He was still wearing his olive drab flight suit. 'Prince Laszlo may, but I do not.'

'Agreed.' concurred Roald, sitting cross-legged beside him, resting his chin on his palm. 'Who do these corporates think they are? They just show up out of nowhere, and suddenly we're supposed to just trust them?'

The old armory had been converted into a ready room for the Sol Squadron. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke hung over the room. On the wall was a large portrait of Mihaly A. Shilage, larger and crisper than the low-quality counterfeit sitting in the upstairs conference room, depicting the man that the Sol Squadron pilots reveredly called "King".

In the center of the room was a large table overlaid with piles of used cigars, and a heap of empty bottles underneath.

'Lock it down, both of you.' said Seymour, pacing around. 'There has to be some reason that Prince Laszlo is doing this. He would never betray our people.'

'... I would not be so sure.' Wit said, sitting at the table, arms crossed. He was still wearing his dress uniform.

'What do you mean?' Seymour posed.

'We have dedicated our lives to fighting for our country's restoration.' Wit continued. 'All of us. We saw our opportunity, and we took it. We fought against all comers - the Eruseans, the Osean Snowbirds, Doctor Schroeder's hideous experiments, and the marauding warlords that still plague this land. Every time we go up, we protect King's former domain. We fly fully prepared to die for our Voslagian homeland and to protect our Shilagian brother people.'

Hermann and Roald murmured in agreement, while Seymour remained silent, waiting expectantly to see what his trusted companion was going to say next.

Sure enough, Wit's tone became sharp and bitter, 'And look at how our leaders have repaid us! A few honeyed words, and they would forget everything that condemned us in the past. That bastard Prince Laszlo would happily lay down a red carpet for the foreign occupiers all over again. Just like he did before, during that time-'

'How dare you!' Seymour cut him off, unprepared for the sudden accusation against the Prince. 'Prince Laszlo has taken it upon himself to lead his country in its hour of need. Do you honestly believe him to be a willing traitor to his people?'

'Need I remind you that King did the same?'

Naked outrage flashed across Seymour's face, but Wit's words nevertheless rang true - in his time, Mihaly really had collaborated with the foreign occupiers, the Eruseans. Right up until the Lighthouse War, by which time the face of that collaboration was...

'Wit is correct.'

A fifth voice entered the conversation. The four pilots of the Sol Squadron turned to face their new interloper, and the air suddenly chilled.

'You...!' Wit growled. His chair scraped back as he suddenly stood up.

It was Doctor Schroeder, standing in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat.

'What do you want?' Seymour hissed through clenched teeth, his voice dripping with real hatred. After all, Schroeder was the one that had squeezed King dry and then discarded him like a pair of old slippers, all to feed his army of autonomous killer drones. And now, he had evidently thrown his lot in with the corporate gangsters of General Resource.

'Scum!'

Hermann and Roald too had risen from their places, flanking Schroeder from behind. Their eyes locked onto him, malevolent glares like guns at the back of his neck.

'You should have gone back to Belka, Doctor.' Wit said. 'We do not welcome the likes of you here in our sanctuary.'

'Hear, hear.' Seymour concurred.

'Belka did everything wrong.' said Hermann.

'Seven nukes weren't enough.' Roald added helpfully.

Surrounded by the most dangerous men in his former employ - bar one obvious exception - Schroeder remained utterly unfazed. Rather than engage, the former Belkan scientist instead just calmly took off his glasses.

'We need to talk.' he said softly. 'It's important.'

It seemed something was troubling him as well, troubling enough for him to seek out the Sol Squadron privately - away from Laszlo, away from Gilbert Park. Even away from that gullible Erusean prostitute. He must have known what he had done, what he had wrought, and that everyone had very good reason to detest him bitterly... And yet still he had come.

Intrigued, Wit was the first to nod gingerly and proffer him a chair.

'Take a seat, Doctor Schroeder.'

---

'Are you serious?'

'Unfortunately, yes.' Schroeder replied flatly.

They were all seated at the table now. The wonderful aroma of freshly-poured plum brandy filled the room, almost pushing away the heavy clouds of cigar smoke.

'General Resource is a threat to us all. I am building a new army to stand up to them, and I need people who are capable and trustworthy.'

Wit raised a brow. 'And yet you work with them? With General Resource?'

'A tactical decision, one that would have changed little even if I had refused.' Schroeder said blankly. 'But this way, we know where they are.'

Seymour narrowed his eyes. 'Yes, and I suppose they pay well too.' he said venomously.

'Maybe so.' Schroeder conceded. 'But we both know that the General Group has no need of money. They don't even need new customers. What they do want is power, and their plans are too grand for them to be stopped by simple refusal. At least by following them, we acquire the means to move against them. And so I'm doing that. My new army will draw upon my old connections with the EASA, Air Erusea, and others. That is where you come in.'

'But why us?' Wit pressed. 'You spend your days at the Space Elevator. Why not ask your new friends in Osea and the IUN? Instead of coming here into my country with your dirty shoes.'

Schroeder sighed. 'The Oseans are withdrawing, and they are taking their troops with them. As for the rest of the IUN-PKF... well, you can probably deduce why they don't fill me with confidence either.'

'I suppose so.' Wit grumbled. 'Look, Doctor, all of this is very nice. Flattering, even. But our purpose is here. This is our country, and it calls to us to uphold its restoration. For the sake of our brotherly Shilagian people, who have suffered ten times more than my Voslagian people, and for the sake of all those who fought and died for freedom... We fight so they will never have to suffer the yoke of foreign oppression again.'

'And I too am fighting for my people.' Schroeder said, eliciting a moment of surprised silence from the Sol team. Whatever they had been expecting him to say, this had not been it.

'Belka...?' Hermann ventured.

The former Belkan shook his head. 'The Princess and her companions, the Space Elevator community... they are my people now. They pulled me back from the edge of madness, and I owe it to them to do everything in my power to protect them. But alone, against General Resource, we stand no chance. Here in Shilage, I see the same dilemma; you can stay and fight and be destroyed.'

They listened attentively, grim expressions on their faces. As much as they still hated him, they knew that he was right.

'Or you can band together with me.' Schroeder said. 'We can combine our strength, and make others aware of our cause. If we stand together... we might just be able to defend ourselves.'

Wit leaned back and folded his arms, considering his former employer's words.

'I still don't see...'

Then, suddenly, he remembered the last words that Mihaly had ever said to them;

'You must find your own sky.' Mihaly had said. 'Don't waste your life. Dedicate it to reclaiming that which you call home.'

Finding our own sky... That which we call home...

Even his own words were coming back to him now;

'Don't die. As long as we're alive, our hopes and dreams will live on.'

As long as we are alive...

Then, an epiphany. If they were to go along and join Schroeder's new army, their people might - or might not - fall to the predations of General Resource.

On the other hand, if they stayed behind, if they fought to his last and died for their country, then Shilage and Voslage would certainly be swallowed up into a corporate hell beyond imagining, of powerpoint presentations and shady salespeople, and that would be the end of that.

It was an ugly dichotomy, but one with an obvious choice. The first option was the least disagreeable; by aligning himself with Doctor Schroeder's outrageous plan, there would at least be a chance - a remote chance, but a chance nonetheless - that it would lead to another force rising to counteract the overwhelming power of General Resource. And there would be another probability, however slim, that Shilage and Voslage might just escape their notice and be left to chart their own course.

But did the other Sol Squadron pilots see it that way?

Wit regarded his wingmen closely. They had all known each other for a long time, and worked together for many years towards the same goal; restoration. Now was a critical time, and the decision they made here would decide the course of their future as Voslagians. Though there was much uncertainty on all sides, they had reach a consensus.

Hermann and Roald met his gaze. Their faces betrayed no joy, but they both seemed to be in agreement. Seymour was the last to look up, signalling with a curt nod.

Rightly or wrongly, the men had made their decision. Seeing this, Wit bowed his head, before turning to Schroeder.

'... Alright, we'll do it.' he said, sighing deeply. 'We don't like this, but we see no other choice. We'll follow you.'

Schroeder nodded sagely. His lips remained stiff, but his eyes softened imperceptibly. 'Thank you. All of you. I appreciate it.'

'Hmph.' Wit turned his head away, almost unbelieving that he'd just been persuaded to rejoin his old boss. 'So, what happens now?'

Schroeder stood up, leaving his drink untouched. 'Stay among your countrymen.' he said simply. 'Find friends and allies among them who share our suspicions of General Resource, and recruit them. When the time comes... you will be called upon.'

And with that, the former Belkan departed. He gently shut the door behind him, leaving the men of the once-vaunted Sol Squadron alone with their thoughts and troubles.

Then, as one, they all buried their faces in their hands and swore loudly. The road to restoration and peace for their people was a difficult one, with an ending that always seemed to lie just out of reach.

For now, they would have to keep on fighting. Nothing else could be done.

---

The Salty Sailor
Shilage Castle Town, Western Usea
8 April 2020

'Shoot her. She's of no use to us anymore.'

'Woof! Woof!'

With tears in her eyes, Rosa wrapped herself tighter in her sheets and turned over. There were voices in her head, so many voices, ghosts of the past that were coming back to haunt her.

'You are in no position to bargain with me, Princess. The war is over, and the Osean people have had enough of costly overseas adventures. If you want our help, it'll cost you big. Freedom ain't cheap - pay up, or shut up.'

'Apologies, Princess, but in the opinion of our Union of Yuktobanian Republics, the value of our humanitarian arrangement has faded. Therefore, we are terminating our supply mission to the International Space Elevator. You must offer a more tangible benefit if you wish to regain our support.'

She pulled the blanket over her head and turned again.

'General Resource will succeed where Osea, Yuktobania, and all the other fools have failed. We can help you. We can make things right!'

'Our people will not accept being reduced to subject status again.'

'5.7 trillion MRP in exchange for refugees. Let us at least agree to the spirit of this deal in principle.'

'We would be grateful.'

'Excellent. Now, as for the Princess... '

'Shoot her. She's of no use to us anymore!'

'I'm sorry!'

Breathing heavily, Rosa jolted awake with a shudder, entangled in cold, sweat-soaked sheets that were no longer crisp or white. It was 2:06am, and she couldn't sleep. Her mind was being assailed with too many thoughts that wouldn't let go. Too many reminders of her past failings, as lucid now in memory as when she had lived through them. Too many fears that she was about to commit those mistakes all over again.

Schroeder had assured her that things were moving forward. And that was true... but was she really moving forward along the right path?

Reaching for her handkerchief, she sat up and wiped away her tears.

'It's all in my head, it's all in my head,' she mumbled to herself, rubbing her temples as she gingerly placed her feet on the hard wooden floor. 'Like Doctor Schroeder said, I just have to do the best in my circumstances. No one can ask any more.'

'And what if your best isn't enough?'

Rosa looked up at the source of the voice, and almost jumped in shock. Leaning in the doorway was Prince Laszlo of Shilage, silhouetted against the candle-lit hallway behind him. He was still fully dressed in his royal tunic and wearing that same, scornful glare that he had seemingly kept reserved for Rosa during their earlier meeting.

She couldn't face him. It was hard enough to face the leader of a people yours had formerly oppressed, to say nothing if they had very good reason to believe that you were about to do it a second time.

Instead of the expected rebuke, however, the ageing Prince merely posed a simple question,

'Can't sleep?'

Slowly, Rosa shook her head.

'Nor I.' Laszlo said levelly. 'I have been awake all night myself.'

'What are you doing here?' she asked. 'How long were you-'

'I was here all the time.'

Rosa gave him a funny look. After an uncomfortable silence, Laszlo grinned imperceptibly. 'I do jest. But I did want to talk to you - alone. Before that, however, I had heard you from down the hallway. You have been having a hard time, have you not?'

'Yes...'

'You feel scared and powerless that, no matter what you do, it all plays directly into somebody else's hands. And you are left to deal with the consequences.'

'... Yes.' Rosa said again. Her voice was soft, as she tried to fight down the lump in her throat. She was losing. It was not just from the unbearable sadness of her whole situation, but also now the sudden realization that someone had finally understood her. She felt as though a great weight was slowly being lifted from her, liberating and overwhelming all at the same time. 'I don't know...' she breathed. 'I don't know why... But I can't seem to stop myself from repeating the mistakes of my past... I want to bring peace, and help my people... But everything I do... just seems to bring more war and more conflict with it.'

'You were desperate.'

'Yes.'

'Desperate enough to ally with General Resource?' Laszlo probed. 'Who are now moving in force into our country, with their guns and warplanes?'

Suddenly feeling attacked, Rosa shot up to her feet. 'Yes, damn you!' she snapped, letting her sheets fall down as she balled her fists and stamped her foot. 'It was like this before, with Gründer Industries and the Erusean military! I let myself believe them, just like I am letting myself believe that lying snake Gilbert Park now. And I know he is only using me as a front for his own hideous plans! Nothing has changed from before! Nothing! And there's nothing I can do to change that! And I hate myself for it!'

At this outburst, however, Laszlo responded only with a mild grin. 'Finally, some spirit.' he said calmly.

Rosa slumped back down, suddenly remembering who she was talking to. '... I'm sorry,' she said, turning away in embarrassment. 'I'm sorry that you had to see me let out my feelings like this. It's hard to look in the mirror sometimes. I'm only nineteen, but I've already made so many mistakes. I can't do anything right... And yet, my people, thousands of people, who have lost everything because of the war that I started... they still look to me for guidance, for leadership...'

Silence.

'But I can't be the leader they need. Or deserve...' Rosa continued, her voice starting to shake. 'But I can't quit either. I don't want to let everyone down again... But there's really nothing that I can do!'

She buried her face in her hands and wept.

Laszlo nodded sagely, as though something had been confirmed to him. He allowed another moment of contemplative silence to pass, before he spoke again.

'Perhaps not.' he said. Rosa looked back up again, teary-eyed and half-daring to believe there was hope. 'Come with me - we have much to discuss...' He turned to leave, pausing just under the doorway. '... But first, please put some clothes on.'

Looking down, Rosa blushed.

---

Shilage Catacombs, Western Usea
8 April 2020

'We shouldn't be doing this. Someone might see us!'

'Do not worry. No one will find us here...'

As it turned out, the cellar of the Salty Sailor concealed a hidden entryway into the underworld. A shadowy warren of catacombs that ran underneath the whole town, reaching into the earth from beneath Shilage Castle like the roots of a giant, fantastical tree. Apparently, the tunnels were built long ago as a means of escape from the castle in the event of a hostile takeover. Through the years, the catacombs had been carefully maintained and even modernized - until all records were destroyed in the chaos of the revolution and the Erusean conquest that followed. But the catacombs were still there, its exit points lying undisturbed and forgotten all across the old castle town. And the Salty Sailor tavern held one of them.

Oil lantern in hand, Prince Laszlo had led Rosa into this hidden entrance, disguised as a humble wine barrel among a hundred others just like it. It descended vertically down a spiral staircase into an underworld of dark, damp stonework and stale air. Mercury lamps, caked with decades-old dust, lined the walls. Neglected for decades, most of them had expired long ago. The scant few that were still working created pools of light in the darkness, bathing in a flickering, ice blue tint. There were other passages visible, more than a few of which were visibly caved in.

Dressed in a simple hooded cloak, Rosa followed Laszlo as the stairs levelled off into a narrow tunnel, footsteps echoing from the stony ground in little puffs of powdered masonry. Bullet holes and dark stains marred the walls. In one corner lay a skeleton, its desiccated jaws hanging open from its owner's final moments, clutching a torn, dusty pennant in a literal death grip. A closer inspection recognized it as the old flag of the Grandy Duchy of Shilage - its colors faded and fabric eaten through by moths, but still recognizable.

As Laszlo took them deeper into the tunnels, there were more corpses scattered about; most were wearing the faded patches and fatigues of the Royal Shilage Guard, like that unfortunate standard bearer. Some were not wearing uniforms at all. And there were others still, dressed in old Belkan splinter camouflage.

Rosa swallowed. Who could say what scenes of unimaginable slaughter that these ancient corridors had witnessed? Well, perhaps there was one person...

I had no idea this place existed, Rosa reflected. I don't think anyone in the Erusean government knew about these tunnels. These Shilagians... how did they...?

'As you can guess,' Laszlo said, in answer to her unspoken question. 'These catacombs were - and remain - a carefully guarded secret.'

'When was the last time they were used?' Rosa asked.

'When do you think?' Laszlo replied sharply. Suddenly realizing the answer, Rosa flinched.

'I'm sorry...' she mumbled.

'The modern generation knows little of this place,' Laszlo continued, ignoring her reflexive apology. 'Lost as it has been to the passage of time and memory. I am perhaps one of the last people alive who does. There is one other, but I have not seen him for many years - not since he turned away from our family to join the Erusean Air Force.'

'Then why are showing this to me?' Rosa asked. 'Even putting aside questions of... history, it's improper for us to be meeting like this. Aren't the negotiations still ongoing?'

Laszlo nodded judiciously. 'Yes. But my government and I have already made our decision, and I think you are capable of understanding why. If nothing else, I believe you deserve to know before Gilbert Park does.'

Rosa said nothing, instead waiting anxiously for him to continue. That sinking feeling in her stomach was back, a sort of sixth sense that she had developed during the bloodbath at Tyler Island, a premonition that she was not going to like what she was going to hear.

'We are going to refuse General Resource's offer.' Laszlo said, making his position clear at last. 'We will draw out the negotiations for as long as possible, and work earnestly towards a peaceful settlement. But we will not trade our hard-won freedoms for empty promises of comfort and security. Not again. We will not repeat the mistakes of our past.'

Rosa's heart sank. 'But then General Resource will destroy you!' she said. 'And then they'll take what they want anyway!'

Prince Laszlo remained defiant. His expression, only faintly perceptible in the artificial twilight, was one of determined pride - completely different to the level, agreeable man that had sat in the conference chamber the previous day. 'If General Resource will get their way regardless,' he began grimly. 'Then we can at least deny them the satisfaction of seeing us bow to them.'

'But what about your people?' Rosa said. 'So many... If you defy General Resource, they'll all be killed!'

Her voice was tinged with an edge of desperation. And from their earlier conversation in the bedroom, Laszlo could now recognize that she was speaking to her own inner self just as much as she was speaking to him.

'I appreciate your concern.' Laszlo said soberly. 'We will move to evacuate as many of the women and children as we can. But we will not hand them over to General Resource without a fight.'

'But surely...' Rosa pressed. 'Surely it's better to live to be able to fight another day, even if it means... a lifetime of... submission... Ah.' she trailed off, once again remembering her position, and who she was talking to. Overcome once again by shame, she bowed her head. '... I'm sorry.'

Laszlo breathed a heavy sigh. '... I had thought that as well. A long time ago.' he said, an air of weary sadness to his voice. 'In the last days of our Grand Duchy of Shilage, my country was torn apart by revolution. In our darkest hours, we believed that it was better to preserve our existence by submitting to Erusean rule, rather than dying in battle against the traitors and their foreign allies.'

Rosa said nothing.

'That was a mistake.' Laszlo glowered. 'Your family, the House of D'Elise, tried to erase our culture, our language, our customs - everything that constituted the Shilagian identity. But despite that, we kept it alive, all these years, on nothing more than the hopes and tears of our people. And when we saw our opportunity to restore our nation, we took it. We knew it would not be an easy path. We knew that we would have to fight... but still we took it. That, Princess, is a nation. You of all people should understand that by now.'

Rosa shrunk back. Indeed, what was she supposed to say to that?

'Freedom is not a right.' Laszlo continued. 'It is a prize won in blood, yours or your enemies'. Once you give it up, it is not easily regained. The freedom to make your own decisions - and to own the consequences of those decisions - is a precious thing. And if those consequences should result our destruction, then so be it. Better that we die on our feet, as free men, than to live in submission on our knees. We will not make the same mistake again.'

'And that's why you brought me here?' Rosa asked sourly. 'Just to rub this in my face?'

'Partially.' Laszlo replied flatly, masking his dry amusement as Rosa's face flashed a contortion of shock, shame, and anger all at the same time. 'But it was also to show you how our background and our history has shaped our thinking and how we look at the world - and therefore, how it has determined our actions now and to come. What you do with this information is up to you.'

'I won't tell anyone.'

'Indeed. Then let me ask you this; what is your assessment of our situation?'

'... I think... I think you're trying to do the right thing.' Rosa said, choosing her words carefully as she worked through her own thoughts. 'You are suspicious to the promises of outsiders because, in your history, the price has always been your freedom. When my country annexed yours, you feel ashamed because you feel partially responsible for letting it happen, and you don't want to see it happen again.'

'Good.'

'But I fear for you as well. This path you're taking is incredibly risky. All of you could be destroyed! And while I know you and your soldiers are prepared for that, I can't help but think of the many innocent people who will be caught in the middle. The world does not need more refugees - there are enough of them as it is. If... If only there were some way to make General Resource leave us all alone...'

'How would you do that?'

'... We would have to fight them.' Rosa had to force those words out. They were almost painful to say. 'There's no other way. That man, Gilbert Park... I know his kind. During the last war, my government was full of them. They fought right until the very end, and some of them are still fighting even now. I believed in working together for peace. But even after all those speeches I gave about doing just that... it only made their job easier. In the end... it was military force that brought the war to an end.'

'Quite so.' Laszlo concurred. 'And how can we fight them, when we are both too weak to do so on our own?'

'We... would need to ask someone for help.' Rosa replied, suddenly assailed by that sinking feeling in her stomach again. 'Someone far enough away to not see value in threatening us constantly, but near enough to understand the threat posed by General Resource.'

'They would also need to be strong.' Laszlo added helpfully. 'Strong enough not just to face General Resource's forces in battle, but also to command the respect of potential allies. They would also need the logistical capacity to move large amounts of troops and supplies to where they are needed. There is only one country that satisfies all of those criteria; and that is the Osean Federation.'

Rosa swallowed. 'But I've tried asking the Oseans for help before.' she said. 'And every time, I was refused. They're still proceeding with their withdrawal. They want nothing to do with Usea anymore!'

'That is because they no longer see any profit in doing so.' Laszlo replied matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'Princess... you are still young, but if there is one lesson from Shilagian history you must learn, it is that, at a fundamental level, nations are only ever concerned about themselves and what affects them.'

As if struck by an uncomfortable revelation, Rosa pursed her lips. She understood the principles of realpolitik, but how it related to her situation was only now dawning on her.

'In the case of Osea,' Laszlo went on. 'You cannot just 'ask them' for help - you have to make them want to do it. You have to make it worth their while. You have to convince them that putting up their carriers, their marines, their warplanes for you is in their best interests, because yours do not even factor as a footnote in their calculations. Do you understand now? I have given you plenty of material to make this case but, if this is what you really want, then you must be the one to do it.'

Rosa, digesting this information, said nothing. Laszlo similarly held his tongue, confident that his point had been made.

There was nothing more to say.

---

The Salty Sailor
Shilage Castle Town, Western Usea
8 April 2020

The return trip to the surface was fairly uneventful, and aside from a furtive check that the coast was clear, the two royal sovereigns had made it back to the safety and comfort of the tavern.

As they re-emerged back into the ancient cellar, lined with row upon row of wine barrels from which the catacomb entry was already almost indistinguishable, Laszlo suddenly stopped.

'My apologies, Princess, but this is where I leave you.' he said. 'As you said, it is not proper for two sides of an official negotiation to meet while the talks are still ongoing. Certainly not in a place like this.'

Rosa nodded. 'I understand.' she said.

'Excellent. Then I wish you well.'

He extended a hand - the hand of one former enemy to another. Rosa contemplated it for a moment, before grasping it, firmly and gratefully.

'Thank you.' she said, bowing slightly. 'And thank you, for speaking to me. It helped me, and I really appreciate it.'

'You are very welcome.' Laszlo replied, releasing his hand. 'But equally, you must never look away in shame from your own abilities. I may have provided you with context and direction, but it is you who must make the important connections. As such, it falls to you to use this knowledge as you see fit.'

'Of course. And you can rely on my discretion, too.'

'On that, Princess, I hope we can both rest easy. Farewell, Rosa Cossette D'Elise. May we meet again under friendlier circumstances.'

And with that, Laszlo retreated back into the catacombs.

So that's how he got here. Rosa observed. He knew that the underground tunnels connected to this place, so he made sure that I was quartered here. All so he could sneak away from his castle, cross the catacombs, and speak to me here...

With a grateful smile, she turned around and continued back towards her room, buoyed by the knowledge that she had somehow made at least one new friend here in Shilage.

She was still smiling when she drifted off to sleep less than an hour later.

---

The Outer Wall
Shilage Castle, Western Usea
8 April 2020

'You're going back to the Space Elevator?' Gilbert Park muffled, speaking through a mouthful of spiced pork trotters.

Breakfast was being served on a raised terrace platform perched on the outer wall of Shilage Castle, in full view of the town beyond the edge of the ancient battlements, bisected by the mighty Zala River flowing through its center. Daybreak had crawled over the nearby hills, bringing with it clouds of fog and morning mist.

The long table was dressed with a white cloth, where Gilbert Park sat with nine pieces of twinkling cutlery, and an array of colorful, sizzling dishes, each flavored with eleven herbs and spices to create a combination of yeasty, mouth-watering aromas.

'For a few days.' Rosa nodded. 'I just thought you deserved to know.' By which, of course, she really meant "I'm not asking for your permission, I'm telling you what I'm going to do".

'Indeed.' Park replied, before swallowing his mouthful. 'But,' he pressed, pausing to shovel a forkful of sauerkraut into his mouth before continuing. 'What could possibly be so important that it pulls you away from your responsibilities here?'

'I have my responsibilities at the Space Elevator as well. I have to help my people, too.'

Park narrowed his eyes and licked his lips clean. Rosa was incongruously reminded of a snake sizing up its prey. 'Our whole purpose for being here is to do exactly that.' he said, in a low voice.

'And for that, I am grateful.' Rosa said with a slight bow. 'But there are thousands more who are counting on us - both you and myself - to not only do what's right, but also to reassure them that everything's going to be okay. They need that assurance, Gilbert, and with our partnership, I'm going to give it to them. Would you be able to help me manage the negotiations in my absence?'

'... That depends. Is Doctor Schroeder going with you?'

'No... I haven't spoken to him at all since we arrived.'

'Hm, hmm...' Park mumbled, considering her words carefully as he pierced the skin of a kransky with his fork, as if stabbing someone in the neck. Bringing it to his mouth, he gobbled the whole thing up in a splash of oil and cheese before answering.

'Very well, Your Highness.' he said judiciously, wiping his mouth. 'Thanks for letting me know. Do what you need to do.'

'Thank you, Gilbert.' Rosa said, bowing slightly again before she turned and left the room.

Gilbert Park stared after her for a moment as she departed.

'That Doctor Schroeder is planning something.' he mumbled to himself, swallowing. 'And he has left the Princess out of it.'

Then he shrugged, and wrapped his lips around another pork trotter with a contented grin. One thing he had to say about Shilage Castle, their catering staff certainly knew how to cook.

'... Well, two can play at that game.'

---

Practically bouncing along one of the castle's many hallways, Rosa very nearly crashed into Doctor Schroeder as she rounded a corner.

'Ah, excuse me!' she yelped. 'Oh, Doctor Schroeder.'

'Cossette.' the former Belkan replied. His voice was characteristically flat, but Rosa now knew him well enough to pick up the undertone of concern. 'How are you feeling?'

'I'm doing well, thank you.' Rosa replied with a warm smile. 'I'm feeling a lot better, actually. I...' She was just about to tell him of her discussion with Prince Laszlo earlier that morning, but stopped short at the last moment. It wasn't that Doctor Schroeder was untrustworthy. In fact, the thought of withholding such information from someone so close to her - someone who may well have agreed - was troubling. But the reality was that the less people that knew of her contact with Prince Laszlo, the better.

'... I've been doing some thinking.' She filtered her words with a subtle, practiced ease; capturing snippets that conveyed the right emotions and obscured inconvenient facts, a skill honed through many speeches given in her former capacity as the Princess of Erusea. 'And I think there's hope. I'm going to visit someone first, then go back to the Space Elevator.'

Schroeder nodded. 'I think that's very sensible.'

'I hope so...'

'Whatever happens, you can rely on me.' he continued, speaking with a quiet determination. Rosa sensed that there was something he was hiding from her in turn, but shook it off. 'I'll do whatever it takes to keep our people safe. I too am leaving this place, but I'll talk to you again soon.'

Rosa smiled at him again. 'Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it.'

Schroeder placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, before departing again to resume his business.

Rosa wiped a solitary tear away from her eye - a tear not of grief and powerlessness, but rather of joy and relief. It was a sudden, grateful realization that something had changed since the war after all; she was no longer alone. Against the people who sought to manipulate her for their own ends, she now had people of her own - good people, strong people, people that she could rely on just as much as they relied on her. People that cared for her and would look out for her, even when all hope seemed lost.

She was no longer fighting alone in the dark, and therefore there was hope.

Things were finally looking up, and there was a definite spring in her step as she made her way to pack her things.

---

Shilage Castle Town, Western Usea
8 April 2020

'I'm late! I'm late!'

Yoko Martha Inoue, aged 20, was running late! Briefcase in hand and toast in mouth, she barrelled through the town's cobbled streets, heedless of the odd stares and hushed whispers directed at her by the locals.

'Watch it!' snapped an old Shilagian man, carrying a hand-cranked siren, as he dived out of the way.

'I'm sorry!' Yoko dribbled, spattering jam-slathered crumbs and saliva all over her labcoat.

She was a young woman, born in Far Eastern Usea, with short red-dyed hair and a smooth, round face. She had been hired as Doctor Schroeder's personal assistant, supporting the Gründer employee's secondment to the EASA. When Schroeder cut ties to both of his former employers and joined Princess Cossette's provisional administration, his entire staff - Yoko included - joined him. She was a diligent worker and an able administrator, on top of being a first-rate researcher in her own right.

But today, Schroeder had suddenly decided to leave Shilage. Yoko had still been asleep recovering from a long night's work when the call came through on her phone - a new model from General Resource's Phone Tech branch, plugged firmly into the GR network. Why her boss wanted to leave now, she neither knew nor cared. What mattered was that he did, and that was that. And she was running late!

Agh, I'm so late! Yoko thought inwardly, brushing back a strand of her short-cropped hair. Why did I have to be late on my last day in Shilage? Doctor Schroeder is going to be so mad at me!

Suddenly, she collided with something large and firm. With a yelp, she tumbled backward onto the cobble street with a bone-rattling jolt. It was a hard landing, and the toast had been knocked from her mouth, painting an ugly stain on her clothes.

'Ouchie...' she mumbled, rubbing her temple with her free hand.

'Are you okay?' a voice asked.

'Uguu...' she mumbled, looking up. 'I...'

She stopped herself with a gasp when she finally got a good look at the man that she had so haphazardly run into.

He was a handsome man, tall and square-jawed, with broad shoulders, dreamy eyes, and a strong, muscular frame. His hair was dyed blonde and carefully-styled, with a well-trimmed stubble on his chin. He wore a knarloc green tunic and matching combat pants, along with heavyset black boots and a beefy vest, onto which was sewn the patch of the General Resource Defense Force.

She swallowed. Somehow, it felt as though she had met a movie star, dressed to play the part of a real-life action hero. It was almost too good to be true.

'Doki...' she caught herself muttering.

'You're not hurt?' the man asked in a deep, masculine baritone, and Yoko suddenly remembered that his hand was still outstretched.

Blushing, she took it. The man's grip was hard and firm, but also oddly pleasant. A tingling sensation flowed through her as the man hoisted her to her feet, and for a single, breathtaking moment, their eyes met.

'Ah! I'm sorry.' Yoko gasped, suddenly averting her gaze. 'It's rude to stare...'

'Only at strangers.' the man replied with a genial smile. 'But let's fix that. I'm Abyssal Dision. Aerial Security Specialist at General Resource.'

Yoko somehow felt as though she had won the lottery. A fighter pilot! What fortune!

'I'm Yoko...' she said, shyly. 'Yoko Inoue. Or Martha, if you prefer.'

'Yoko... that's a wonderful name.'

'Oh, uh, thank you...'

Abyssal Dision smiled again. Looking once more into his deep eyes, Yoko suddenly found it hard to stand up straight, weak in the legs.

'There's a pretty neat cafe around here.' he stated. 'Why don't you and I go there for a coffee?'

'Oh, well, I don't know, I...'

Yoko still remembered that she had a job to do. She was meant to meet Doctor Schroeder, and leave the country with him and continue to serve at his side. Schroeder was planning something great, and he needed Yoko around to help him realize his vision...

...

... Or did he?

Did Doctor Schroeder truly appreciate all the work that Yoko Martha Inoue had done for him? She had been his loyal assistant for a long time. She was a smart and capable scientist-in-training, and absorbed everything that Schroeder had taught her like a sponge. She had stayed with him, even during the chaos of the Lighthouse War and now in its aftermath.

She had even handled the granddaughters of the legendary ace pilot, Mihaly A. Shilage, both of whom had been under great stress and intensely hateful of the trials that Schroeder was putting their grandfather through, managing them on his behalf.

And through all of that, Doctor Schroeder had not even given her one squeak of praise. Not once had he acknowledged her efforts, her intelligence, diligence, and hard work - not even a "good job" or "well done". Just an empty silence, with all of his care and attention going to his work instead of his subordinates. Some boss he was!

But now, here was Abyssal Dision, the handsome ace pilot, who truly seemed to care about her...

Yoko swallowed, then beamed a smile. '... I'd love to.' she said. 'Let me just make a quick phone call...'

Dision stood aside as Yoko dialled a number her GR phone. The signal was being transmitted and relayed through the GR communications tower that had just gone up on the nearby hill, granting access to the whole GR network...

«Schroeder speaking.»

'Hello? Doctor Schroeder? It's Martha. Something... urgent's come up, and I have to take care of it. Please go ahead without me - I'll see you when you next get back to the Space Elevator.'

«... Very well, Massa. Do what you must.»

I knew it. Yoko thought. He doesn't care about me. Not even enough to pronounce my name right! Well, I'll show him!

'Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate it. Ping me if you need anything. See ya!'

And with that, she hung up and turned back towards Dision.

'Okay then! Let's go!'

'Right this way.'

---

As Dision led Yoko away for "coffee", another figure was watching from around a corner - Gilbert Park clasped his hands and grinned at the success and irresistible charm of his greatest champion.

'Impressive.' he muttered with a satisfied smirk. 'Most impressive!'

Even if Doctor Schroeder, that stubborn, troublesome Belkan bastard, could not be made to see reason, it was not actually necessary to recruit him - his assistant, the young and naive Yoko Martha Inoue, would do just fine. Although she occupied a fairly modest post, it was one that surely still had good access to all of the Doctor's dirty secrets and planned movements. And tracking her on her GR-produced phone was child's play, telling Park everything he needed to know about how seriously she took security precautions. She would do just fine.

'Yesss!' he said to himself, cackling and wringing his hands some more. Some of the Shilagian passersby turned their heads to stare, but he paid them no heed.

'Just as planned!'

End of Chapter TWO

---

Assault Record #2 - Wit
Aircraft: Su-30M2 Flanker-F2
Rank: Colonel
Date of Birth: Unknown
Unit: 68th Experimental Squadron "Sol", Voslagian Air Force
Nationality: Voslagian (formerly Erusean)
Dossier:
A skilled pilot of Voslagian heritage. From a young age, he believed that he could restore his homeland's independence through outstanding military service. Eventually joining the elite Sol Squadron, he flew escort for the legendary Mihaly A. Shilage. Towards the end of the conflict, his team saw an opportunity to break away from Erusea and restore their Voslagian homeland. During the last battle against the Ravens, he was wounded, but recovered and was returned to service two months later.

After the war, Wit was promoted to the rank of Colonel and appointed acting commander of the Sol Squadron. Wit continues to fight to this today, leading the reborn Voslagian Air Force into battle against all comers.

---

Author's Notes:
This chapter is a bit light on action, but hopefully has laid enough ground work for future chapters (and, timeline-wise, games) to be a bit more... kinetic.
▪ Eagle-eyed readers will notice that Wit is alive and well in this chapter. It seemed to be a bit of waste for the plot to kill him off at the end of the game, and since it is possible to save him, I've decided to keep him around.
▪ Having played through the game again, Mihaly's backstory isn't really explored, but has a lot of potential... stay tuned.
▪ Long delay is long. This chapter was originally meant to be longer, but some of that content has been shuffled to chapter 3.